


an acquaintance

by AmyriustrixR0se



Category: Murder on the Orient Express (2017)
Genre: F/M, I have very limited knowledge in general, I have very limited knowledge of Poirot and Hastings, One Shot, Romance, at the end, based on Kenneth Branagh's Poirot, based on the 2017 film, so most likely ooc, some partial female nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21968869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyriustrixR0se/pseuds/AmyriustrixR0se
Summary: He thought no other woman could fill the hole Katherine left in his heart until he met the author of a best-selling book.
Relationships: Hercule Poirot/OC, Hercule Poirot/OFC
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	an acquaintance

**Author's Note:**

> Hi :)
> 
> I feel terrible of not knowing the books and not watching the television show, so if how I wrote Poirot is not how y'all see/like him, I'm very sorry.
> 
> This Poirot here is only based on Kenneth Branagh in Murder on the Orient Express (2017). So... I'm just gonna say Poirot is OOC because, well read the tags Dx
> 
> Also, I was originally only going to publish the last portion (the part not in italics) but then I felt there needed to be a bit of a backstory :/ I've been sitting on this doc for a year, I believe, and I really need to publish these gosh darn stories :'( and as you can see, I'm very nervous about publishing it.
> 
> I apologize about all of this again. And if you made it past this, enjoy the story!
> 
> ALSO: partial nudity (woman's upper half) at the last portion!
> 
> -AmyriustrixR0se

_Mr. Poirot glanced up at random and caught a woman looking at him but her eyes were far away as if lost in thought. He returned to impatiently waiting for the traffic lessen so he could cross the street. And in the next minute, he forgot all about the woman-_

_Until she stood in front of him, blocking his path once he made it to the other curb. “Excuse me, sir-”_

_He took a step back at how close she was to him. “Yes, madam?”_

_“I beg your pardon, sir, but your eyes-” She cut herself off, clearly having ran away with her tongue before her brain caught up._

_“My eyes?”_

_A look of both anxiousness and pain washed over her features. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but notice.”_

_“Ah,” he said though he was a little confused – as little of confused Hercule Poirot was capable of. “Usually, it is my mustache that grabs most’s attention first.”_

_“Oh no, sir. It is the oceanic blue of your eyes. So deep, so filled with…” She paused, studying him. “…sorrow, discontent, yet calmness.” Then she registered his face. “I didn’t notice your mustache at all, sir.”_

_He regarded her and spoke with mild interest, “How unlike ze normal balance of the world, you are.”_

_She frowned curiously, a small smile curling the edge of her mouth. “Sir?”_

_He gave a brief chuckle and shook his head. “It is nothing. Simply how I see the world.” He nodded toward her. “As an artist, I’m sure you can relate.”_

_The small smile curved into a grin – thrilled he brought up her work. “Yes, I understand it perfectly! I see the world in color, bright colors, all colors. And yes, I can… agree, that it all balances out. Now that I think about it, my writings – they do have that balance.”_

_He offered a brief smile._

_She looked at her watch. “Excuse me, sir. It seems the life of an artist is one that never sleeps. I must be getting to my… real job.”_

_He inclined his head. “Of course.”_

_She held out her hand to him. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sir.”_

_But he merely regarded her hand – a solemn smile on his face. “Forgive me, I am not one to make an acquaintance.”_

_Her mouth curled with curious enthusiasm and she gave a polite nod. “Understandable, sir. And I suppose we shall never meet again?”_

_“Yes, indeed.”_

_She curtsied – the girlish grin still on her face. “Very well, sir. Can I at least hope you’ll read my book?”_

_“Perhaps,” he generically offered. He’d soon forget about the encounter and truly never speak to this woman again._

* * *

Lonely and broken, murky and dark, as if afraid of letting light in. The blue of his eyes like depths of the ocean – waters so deep his soul has become a captive in his own ship. He struggled to come up for air.

He held fear of repairing what had been lost from his heart – for so many years.

His heart had been taken years before. The breath of a woman still sat on his lips, but her spirit had long departed. He could not find it in himself to heal.

He had closed off years ago.

_It didn’t bother him – what she wrote. Not in the slightest… which was why he was looking at the page with such disdain._

_“Wonderful book, isn’t it?” the secretary beamed, clutching her papers to her chest as he inspected the book. “I’ve read it so many times.”_

_He didn’t smile._

_She gave him a curious look. “What’s the matter, Poirot? You don’t like it?”_

_“Far too many colors.”_

_She laughed. “Oh, I think it’s just divine how it’s written.”_

_“Divine?” Now that was a bit excessive for mere phrases typed on paper._

_Arthur Hastings came out of his office and pointed at the book in Poirot’s hands. “Fancy that book too, eh, Poirot?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I’m going down to the bookshop, getting it signed for my wife.”_

_“Signed?”_

_“By the author.”_

_He didn’t say anything at first. Then, “I will join you, Captain.”_

_In town at the library, a man sitting at a small table with several stacks of books stood up. He let out a joyous laugh. “Oh my! Is that the great Hercules Poirot?”_

_“Hercule Poirot,” he said with usual disdain at people mispronouncing his name. He noted this man was signing books, yet he was not the woman he met. He regarded the man. “And you are?”_

_“PJ Miller, the author, sir,” he answered gleefully. He shook the detective’s hand. “Oh, it is a pleasure in meeting you sir. Here-” He fumbled with the books on the table. He opened one and wrote a brief paragraph then signed it. “-to Hercule Poirot, the legendary detective.”_

_Poirot took the offered book with great reluctance. “Eh, thank you.”_

_“PJ,” the man said with a wide smile._

_“Ehh, ‘PJ’,” he repeated with mild disinterest._

_PJ kept grinning. “So, I take it you’ve read the book. Tell me, what is your favorite part?”_

_Poirot gave a weak chuckle and glanced at the man then the book. “Eh-” He had only read that one part. “-ze whole thing, really. Ah, except for that bit about the man’s- ehm, eyes.”_

_The ‘author’ scrunched his nose. “Oh yes. I was on the rocks about that too. But my publisher thought highly of it, so it stayed. But yes, if it were up to me, it would be gone.” Then he waved someone over. “Mister Poirot, this is my sister.”_

_His eyes shifted to the woman- the woman he met by chance months before. His mustache faintly curved upward. “Miss… Miller, I presume?”_

_“Penelope Miller, Mister Poirot,” she said evenly. She offered her hand and smiled when he took it. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir.”_

_He might have grumbled._

_“Pardon me, I couldn’t help but overhear that you didn’t like a certain part of the book.”_

_He didn’t like her knowing look. “Eh yes, miss. Ze part of ze- ze-”_

_“The man’s troubled eyes,” PJ finished. “Too-” He looked to the detective._

_“Colorful.”_

_Penelope let out a small laugh. “Forgive me, sir, the world is not black and white. Color is paramount in love and loss and-”_

_“Well, it was too much color for my taste.”_

_She regarded him though her eyes held a playful tease – one he did not particularly like. “Of course, sir.”_

* * *

Penelope watched him closely. He had just finished reminiscing about the conversation they shared when he received a copy of the book. He had gone silent, and she took a breath and knew she was about to interrupt his thoughts. “From there, it seemed, we were destined to always meet again.”

His eyes flicked up and the corner of his mouth twitched. “So we were, my darling.”

She matched his partial smile then glanced away at the small photograph on the mantle above the fireplace. This was both uncharted territory and something that had been off-limits for a majority of their courtship. “How- how long did it take you to love again?”

He gave a small and pained smile. He looked at her. “Too long in your opinion, no?”

She tried her hand at coaxing, or teasing, a proper answer from him. “Can the great Hercule Poirot not answer the question? Hm, I’m starting to think you incompetent at your job.”

He matched her glare. “Mi amor,” he rumbled, a faint mischievous light in his eyes appearing then disappearing in an instant. He heard her question continue in his mind – knowing she would never have the nerve to ask him herself no matter how long they had been together. _How long before you finally put Katherine’s photograph down?_

He reached out to her but his fingers merely grazed her hip as she walked by. He watched her pour a glass of whiskey. “You don’t drink,” he stated.

“No,” she smiled. She crossed back to him and put the glass in his hand whether he liked it or not. “You do.”

“On occasion.”

“Let this be one of those occasions,” she smiled softly. She fanned herself as if saying the wee fire in the fireplace was causing the entire room to be warm. “I’m going to get ready for bed. I’ll be back.”

He was alone with his thoughts for a while. Katherine and he had been young when they met and married, and she had been young when she died. Taken too soon from him. His heart truly remained empty for most of his life. Penelope had been right in her book – he had closed off to anyone long ago.

Then even he had been surprised at how often they crossed paths, and how often she would pass through just to see him. Her visits had been consistent, her face and voice had been consistent… it all held a sense of normality- true normality he had been missing since Katherine’s death.

Of course, the great Hercule Poirot would have never believed he’d open his heart to another in this lifetime, but somehow, he did.

He caught sight of her familiar frame in the doorway and swallowed: she wore nothing but one of his pale blue dress shirts.

“Air-kyoul Pwah-rrrow,” she mused, coming into the common room again.

His eye twitched in annoyance at the horrid pronunciation of his name.

She perched herself on the arm of his chair. He nursed his drink and glanced up at her but didn’t say anything.

She unbuttoned the shirt slowly, brown doe eyes blinking innocently at him. “I am grateful for the meetings we had- even more grateful for the love we share now. The grrreat Air-kyoul Pwah-row took a chance on an acquaintance.” Her olive-toned bosom was barely concealed when she reached the third button.

He scoffed.

She turned and straddled his lap, her fingers on the fifth button – her nipples threatening to peek out from the shirt. “It’s true, darling. Don’t you scoff at me.”

He grumbled a bit and silently took a drink.

“Our first meeting, you said you didn’t have acquaintances. I am honored I was an exception.”

“You were a constant acquaintance,” he put in. “Ze same woman.”

The dress shirt slipped off. “Oh yes, and that truly matters,” she snickered.

He downed the rest of his drink then took her breast in his hand, tenderly teasing her nipple. “It does.”

“And we became friends.”

“Then something more,” he finished, leaning forward to kiss her neck. He dragged his teeth against her skin and grinned when she gave a soft moan. “You are ze only sane thing in my life. A light in my… blue life.”

She laughed lightly, “Oh, you used my colors.”

He smiled and attempted to catch her lips but she pulled away. He looked to her questioningly.

But she pressed a finger to his lips before reaching for the fallen shirt. His hand gripped the material as it passed him – he would not permit her to put it back on for she had teased him too much. “But I can tell you are humoring me, Her-kyoul-eez Por-rott.”

He narrowed his eyes at the name and slid his hand underneath her thigh and the other to her back. She draped the shirt over her chest and looked at him coyly. “My, have I said something?”

Soon enough, she was on the floor lying on her back with him hovering over her. She draped her arms over his shoulders as he lifted her leg up and over his hip. “It is Hercule Poirot, Madame,” he warned.

She pouted, “Madame? I am not that old.” She hooked her other leg over him.

“You little minx,” he growled in her ear. “You are teasing me.”

Her teeth tugged at his earlobe. “I never tease, darling,” she mused. Her nimble fingers found his tie and soon the first button of his dress shirt. She smiled and met his eyes, admiring the way his greying blond hair fell forward. “Just annoy.”

He gave a snort and kissed the length of her neck.


End file.
